


Weatherproofing

by poisonivory



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Head Injury, M/M, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-02
Updated: 2018-03-02
Packaged: 2019-03-25 21:23:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13843317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisonivory/pseuds/poisonivory
Summary: Wait. That sound. Matt tilts his head, trying to place it through the scattershot of sleet hitting the rooftops around him.It’s hard to tell with his face so cold, but he thinks he smiles. Home. He was here the whole time.





	Weatherproofing

**Author's Note:**

> Pure fluff.

Matt perches on the fire escape, shakes his head, and tries to clear it. It’s a mistake. The movement throws his balance off and he lurches with sudden vertigo, clutching at the rain-slick railing with numb fingers to stop himself plummeting the six stories to the ground.

It’s been a bad night.

He’d picked up some heroin traffickers landing in New York with their shipment. It was a major exchange and they weren’t looking to let anyone stop them - not the freezing January rain that had poured down all day, or the vigilante who’d shown up to crash the party.

Matt had brought them down, but it was a near thing. His head’s been ringing since the third blow to the head, and a wrenched shoulder makes getting home a tricky proposition. The fact that the rain turned to sleet once the sun went down doesn’t help; every surface is slick and treacherous. Matt keeps stopping to rest so that he doesn’t lose his balance and losing time instead, easing stiffly from a crouch with no idea how long he’s been braced against the wind.

He can’t feel his exposed chin anymore and his fingers are barely cooperating. He’s got to get inside.

He climbs up the ladder to the roof, losing his footing twice. He’s still blocks from home, but he has to keep going. Four blocks south and one block east...no, two. Is it two? He’s turned around. Nothing sounds familiar, and the rain is drowning out every other scent.

South. He has to go south. He runs across the roof, building up momentum, leaps - 

\- and slips, hitting the next roof hard and skidding to his knees. _Fuck_.

Home. He’s so cold, but he’s almost home, he can tell by the sound…

Wait. That sound. Matt tilts his head, trying to place it through the scattershot of sleet hitting the rooftops around him.

It’s hard to tell with his face so cold, but he thinks he smiles. Home. He was here the whole time.

He half-climbs, half-falls down the fire escape to the window, sliding on the iced-over metal. The window’s closed, but not locked, and it’s the work of a moment to push it up and open, letting out a wave of warm air that feels like a furnace blast on his raw and chapped skin. He doesn’t care, not when the scents it carries are as safe and familiar as a favorite jacket.

He pushes the window shut and lets it envelope him: the warmth, the smells, the familiar heartbeat as steady as the tides. It’s such a relief to be inside that it’s dizzying - or maybe that was all the kicks to the head. He’s gotta lie down.

He strips off his suit with fingers that are slow to cooperate and leaves it in a puddle of icy water beneath the window. There’s a moment of confusion where he can’t find his bed. Surely the dorms always have two?

He’s too tired to figure it out right now, shivering in just his boxers, and the bed that’s there is big enough for both of them. Matt slides under the covers.

It’s warmer under there than out of the bed, but the cold has crept into Matt’s bones and he lies there stiffly, curling and uncurling his fingers and toes and trying to stop shivering.

“Mmf,” Foggy says, and curls towards him, slinging an arm over his chest. It’s like being wrapped in sunshine. “You’re _freezing_.”

“Sorry,” Matt whispers. He’s not. Foggy’s touch has done what the blanket couldn’t, and let him start to thaw.

He closes his eyes and drifts off to sleep.

*

Matt wakes up slowly, wrapped in warmth. He pushes his face into the pillow and wiggles a little deeper into his nest of blankets. The strong arms around him tighten in response, and lips brush the back of his neck. “Hrm,” someone behind him says contentedly.

Matt’s eyes fly open.

Whose bed is he in?

A second later, his ears and nose tell him. Foggy, all the familiar sleep-warm smells of him, his familiar heartbeat thrumming through Matt’s back. It’s Foggy’s flannel sheets soft against his cheek and Foggy’s arm holding Matt like something precious…

...and Foggy’s morning wood tucked optimistically up against Matt’s bottom. Well. That’s a thing, then.

What is he doing here? He runs frantically over the events of last night in his mind. He’d been down by the docks, stopping the heroin trackers...they’d knocked him around a bit, but he’d put them all down before the cops got there...fled the scene...and then…

He remembers being cold, and dizzy, and then...this. Waking up in Foggy’s bed, cozy and warm and just a little bit too friendly for comfort.

Not that he exactly _minds_ feeling Foggy like this. It’s just. That’s not what they are.

Which is exactly why this is wrong. If Foggy was awake, if he _knew_ who he was cuddling up against, he wouldn’t. Even if Matt would.

Matt starts to ease himself out of the circle of Foggy’s arms, and Foggy lets out a grunt of protest. “Five more minutes, Matty,” he mumbles, and kisses the back of Matt’s neck. His hips give an affectionate but aimless roll.

Matt blinks several times, trying to sort what just happened into a category that makes sense. Foggy knows it’s him, even if he’s not properly awake yet. And he...kissed him?

Matt needs to get out of here immediately.

But Foggy’s moving more restlessly now, and his heart is speeding up slightly to a waking rate. He yawns, a warm puff of mildly sour breath against Matt’s neck, and mumbles: “Matt?”

And then: “Oh my God.”

Foggy yanks himself away from Matt, sitting up and bundling the blankets in his lap as if Matt could see his arousal if he didn’t, as if Matt didn’t already know. His heart’s much faster than waking now and from the heat in his cheeks, he’s blushing furiously. “Matt! What the...what are you doing here? What the hell?”

Matt winces as he sits up. This isn’t going to be good. “I’m...not sure.”

“You’re not sure?” Foggy repeats.

“No.”

“About what?”

“What I’m doing here.”

“You’re not _sure_. You showed up naked in my bed and you’re not _sure?_ ” There’s a tinge of hysteria in Foggy’s voice now.

“I’m wearing boxers,” Matt says, uncomfortably aware that he’s splitting the wrong hair.

He can’t see Foggy roll his eyes, but he knows Foggy’s doing it. “Did your apartment burn down? Are there ninjas lying in wait in it? Did Wilson Fisk break out of jail and blow it up?”

“No.” Matt scrubs a hand over his face. “Honestly, Foggy, I don’t know. I was patrolling last night, and I guess I took a few too many blows to the head. I don’t really remember. I was heading home, and then…” He shrugs. “It’s fuzzy.”

Foggy’s heart gets faster, but his speech gets slower, more precise. It’s a bad sign. “It’s _fuzzy_ ,” he repeats. “You went out last night and got kicked in the head by criminals until you forgot where you lived. Jesus, I guess I should just be glad I actually _know_ you and you didn’t just crawl into a stranger’s bed.”

“I wouldn’t have done that,” Matt says indignantly.

“Oh yes, because your behavior over the past eight hours has been so reasonable.”

“I _wouldn’t_ ,” Matt insisted. “I knew who you were. I wouldn’t have come in if I hadn’t recognized your heartbeat. I guess I just…” Another scrub over his face. It doesn’t help. He still feels bleary and embarrassed. “Remembered college. Thought I was home.”

Foggy’s heart does something interesting, and then he says, in a voice a little shaky, “So they kicked _ten years_ out of your head?”

Matt groans, tipping his head back. “I just got a little punch drunk, Foggy. It happens. I’m fine now.”

“He’s fine, ladies and gentlemen,” Foggy says, looking around the room like someone’s going to pop out of the closet or out from under the bed and commiserate with him. “Fuck. I need coffee.”

He climbs out of bed and walks out of the room without a backward glance. Matt pauses, then trails after him like the duckling Foggy has so often termed him. Though he doesn’t exactly expect affectionate pet names right now.

Foggy’s already spooning grounds into the coffeemaker and grumbling to himself. Matt leans hesitantly against the butcher block. “Do I get a cup of coffee?” he asks, and tries his most ingratiating smile.

Foggy snorts. “I’m tempted to call Claire and ask her if you can have caffeine with your _brain bleeding_ ,” he says, but he scoops another tablespoon of grounds into the filter.

“It’s not - ” Matt starts to say, but Foggy cuts him off.

“Sit down, you look like hell.”

Matt perches on one of the bar stools at the butcher block. Foggy stays hunched over the coffeemaker, presumably watching coffee drip into the pot. Matt squirms.

“Aren’t you going to say anything?” he asks finally.

Foggy sighs and turns around to face him. “About which part?” he asks. “You know how I feel about Daredevil. It scares the shit out of me, and what happened last night doesn’t make me feel any better about what could happen to you out there. But you’re not going to stop, so…” He shrugs. “I’m dealing with it.”

Matt ducks his head to hide his expression, while wishing selfishly that he could see Foggy’s. “And the other part?”

For a minute his only answer is the racing of Foggy’s heart. Then: “What is there to say, Matt? You know how I feel about that, too.”

Matt can’t help his bitter laugh. “I don’t know how you feel about anything these days.”

When Foggy speaks, his tone drips with incredulity. “Really, Murdock?” he asks. “After all the physical evidence you could have ever wanted, you want me to stand here and reassure you that I’m still gone on you? Haven’t I humiliated myself enough for one morning?”

“You’re…” Matt tilts his head. He’s misreading this. He must be.

He can’t see Foggy’s eyerolls, but he knows the exasperated sigh that goes with them. “Yes, Matthew, I’m still pining away so faithfully you could cut me down and decorate me for Christmas. Happy?”

The coffee maker beeps and Foggy turns to pour out two cups. He hands one to Matt, but Matt puts it down on the butcher block immediately. He doesn’t trust his shaky hands.

“Foggy,” he says.

There’s another sigh. “What, Matt?”

Matt stands up and rounds the butcher block, taking the other mug out of Foggy’s hands and putting it down as well. “Foggy,” he says again, and reaches out to touch Foggy’s face.

Foggy’s heartbeat picks up. Matt wants to tell Foggy that his own is going even faster, but he can’t find the words.

“What, Matt?” Foggy asks again. The same three words, over and over, like they’re caught in a cycle. Like they _have_ been caught in a cycle. It’s time for Matt to break it.

Kissing Foggy feels even more like home than crawling into his bed did.

Foggy makes a startled noise and puts his hands on Matt’s chest, but he doesn’t push him away further than he needs to to speak. “What - what are you doing?”

“Kissing you?” The flirty smile is instinct, and probably a bad one. Foggy knows him too well for that.

Sure enough, Foggy groans. “Shit. Are you confused again?”

“No?” That sounds too, well, confused. “No. I’m not.”

“Are you trying to make me not mad at you?”

“Is it working?” Foggy rears back and Matt clutches at his sleeves. “Bad joke, bad joke, sorry. I’m not...this isn’t…” He can feel Foggy’s heart racing through his shirt, the ebb and swell of his breathing, his warmth. He might actually be able to have this, if he gets this moment right. “I didn’t know. About how you felt.”

“You - what?” And oh, that’s not good, Foggy sounds _horrified_. Worse, he’s pulling away again. “How could you not have known? You can hear my heart!”

“I think you’re interpreting that more literally than it warrants,” Matt protests.

“All the times I talked about how hot you are!” Foggy splutters. “All the jokes!”

“ _Jokes_ ,” Matt points out. “How was I supposed to know you meant them?”

Foggy spreads his hands like he’s beseeching the heavens. “Is it possible to die of humiliation?” he asks the ceiling. “Is that an option? Because I will take it to get away from this hellish morning.”

“Dammit, Foggy, would you listen to me?” Matt asks. “I’m trying to tell you _yes!_ ”

“Yes, I can die of humiliation?” Foggy asks in a voice like a raised eyebrow.

“Foggy,” Matt says, trying not to sound too pathetic. “ _Yes_. You and me, yes. If you want me.” Foggy might claim he already knows the answer to that question, but Matt knows that there’s a difference between wanting and _wanting_. After this morning’s assorted surprises, he’s not going to take anything for granted.

There’s a very long pause.

“ _You_ want _me?_ ” Foggy asks finally.

Matt frowns. “I don’t like how incredulous that sounded.”

“It’s just you’re...you’re so...and every woman you’ve ever dated has been...you’ve never…I’m waving my hands vaguely,” Foggy says, waving his hands vaguely. “You always seemed so… _unattainable_.”

How can he explain to Foggy how much further it is to reach for a star when you can’t even see the night sky anymore? “Yeah? Let me tell you about my charming, brilliant best friend, who makes everyone he meets love him and doesn’t need a vigilante albatross around his neck.”

“Hey,” Foggy says, his tone echoing Matt’s earlier indignation. “That’s not fair. You hate fish.”

Matt huffs a laugh and reels Foggy back in again. “I keep trying to tell you, Foggy. I didn’t pick your window at random. I picked it because you were here. And that meant I was home.”

“Well,” Foggy says, swallowing audibly. Matt’s never quite heard that tone in his voice before, but he thinks it’s good. “How am I supposed to argue with that?”

“Knowing you, you’ll find a way,” Matt starts to say, but then Foggy’s kissing him. As arguments go, it’s a pretty good one.

“I still want you to check in with Claire,” Foggy says, long after Matt’s forgotten what they were talking about.

Matt blinks slowly and then catches up. “Whatever you say.”

“And rest tonight, instead of going out.”

“Yes, dear.”

“And make me pancakes for breakfast.”

Matt laughs, and thumbs the curve of Foggy’s cheeks to feel his smile. “You’re going to milk this for all it’s worth, aren’t you?”

“You’d better believe it. Sneak into my bed in the middle of the night, leave your wet fetish outfit in a puddle on my floor, you’d better be planning on making it up to me.”

“I’ll do my best,” Matt says seriously, and hopes Foggy knows he isn’t talking about pancakes or puddles.

“I know, Matty,” Foggy says, and kisses Matt’s mouth softly. It’ll be a long time before Matt gets used to that, he thinks. “You always do.”

It’s still sleeting outside, clattering against the windows and Foggy’s air conditioner like a percussionist whose enthusiasm outpaces his skill. Matt can feel the cold air bleeding through the glass and hear the wind wailing like a lost child through the alleys. But inside there’s the smell of coffee and the sizzle of butter in a pan and Foggy’s voice, bright and rich and as happy as Matt has ever heard it. Matt did that - somehow, implausibly, miraculously. Matt made him happy, and no stormy day has ever seemed so bright.

He was right last night, as confused as he was.

He’s home.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on [tumblr](http://pluckyredhead.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
